


your favorite ghosts and planets

by xShieru



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers, but not as sad as it sounds, heavily implied character death and sadness, the adventures of ghost keith and musician lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xShieru/pseuds/xShieru
Summary: In hindsight, an asthma attack in the middle of the day wasn’t such a terrible way to give up the ghost. Except this isn't how he imagined afterlife. An AU about being dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> took me 5641451 years to write with the general university chaos and whatnot  
> i cant believe keith kogane is dead.doc  
> not as sad as the tags imply, i hope??

To say that Lance McClain’s life is eventful would be… pushing it.

He's an average guy with _alright_ looks, mediocre guitar-playing skills and a divine singing voice that makes up the entirety of his music career. Lance fondly recalls the days when he was just a rebellious kid who desperately wanted to become a rockstar and perform on the grandest of stages, but years of actual involvement in music bizz later, he decides that the rowdy crowds just aren’t for him. The booming rock music somehow loses its appeal once he hits twenty and ‘grows up’, leaving behind the rockstar fantasies in angst-filled puberty days. Soft indie pop replaces the childish fantasies and it leads Lance to where he is today – a background noise provider at one of the numerous town’s pubs, frequented mostly by college students.

His gigs don't earn him enough to keep the fancy apartment in the better area of the town, so recently he's taken up a part-time too. Needless to say, nowadays Lance is stressed out, drowning in debt and hyper-aware of the time flow, along with a nagging sense that he’ll most likely end up all alone - a hobo without an apartment, a measly career, but surrounded by seventy fluffy cats. Tabbies, preferably.

Not a very bright future indeed. He avoids thinking about it and daydreams about the possibility of going home early and marathoning some shows on Netflix in order to relax. Along with drowning his sorrows in a bucket of over-left mint and chocolate chip ice cream that's been shoved into the deepest part of his freezer for more than a week.

Lance barely resists the urge to sigh into the mic. The crowd isn't too big tonight, it's not like anyone would mind either way.

He carefully listens to Pidge’s finishing guitar riffs and politely bows when the wishy-washy clapping reaches the small elevation of the floor that's _supposed to_  replace an actual stage.

Hunk and Pidge, his band-mates, exchange worried glances when they catch sight of Lance’s hunched shoulders once he's done peeling off the strap of his acoustic guitar. Hunk breaks the awkward hum of not-quite silence. It's never silent at the Garrison.

“So, uh, Pidge and I were thinking of going back to her place, ordering some pizzas, playing some video games, you know,” Hunk awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, one eyebrow raised as if he's ready to psychoanalyze Lance’s response, no matter how bleak. “Good old-fashioned team bonding.”

“No thanks, man. I’ll sit this one out,” Lance sighs after a moment and pulls on his jacket. May is already knocking at their doors, but the heat is nowhere in sight. “I’m not really up for it. All I wanna do right now is go home and catch some z’s. Plus Pongo and ‘Dita have probably shredded half of my belongings by now.”

His friends don't seem to buy it. “But you never turn down Pizza Fridays!”

“First time for everything. See ya, guys, have fun without me. If you decide to play Overwatch with Rax later, tell him to go fuck himself.” Lance pulls on the strap of the guitar case and goes for the door, waving Hunk and Pidge goodbye.

They’re probably never going to let him live this one down, Lance thinks, when he hears Pidge’s muffled ‘what crawled up his ass and died’, but he has more important things to take care of tonight, like that ever-growing void inside his heart. And the one in his stomach, now that he thinks about it.

Another uneventful Friday night. Another same-old trip back home. Nothing exciting.

Yep, he's definitely getting old and going down the ‘overabundance of dogs’ route rather than 'cats'. Maybe his pups will do the trick.

* * *

 

When Lance steps over the threshold, he immediately gets the feeling that something’s wrong because:

  1. There are no rolls of nommed on toilet paper, ripped up magazines, cushions, shattered vases or inky paw prints anywhere in sight.
  2. There are no friendly tongues in his face and he is yet to be knocked down on his ass by two over-hyperactive borzois.
  3. In fact, his son and daughter are nowhere in sight.



Which, when seriously taken into consideration, is more than enough to ring some alarms inside Lance’s self-pitying brain. The apartment is scarily _clean_ and he thinks that he hears his babies whining in the living room, elongated bodies probably shoved under the couch. If there’s a goddamn _thief_ in the house, then damn, what’s the point of having two hyperactive beasts that decide to hide instead of defending their master.

Lance quietly mutters a string of curses and crosses the small hallway in a few soundless steps, taking out one of the multiple katanas strapped to the wall. Jesus fuck, this is intense.

Good thing he's decided to go back home instead of wreaking havoc at Pidge’s. At least he’ll protect the dogs.

When he threads into the living room, the dogs start whining, their paws scratching against the floor. Lance has a distinct feeling that 'Dita is stuck under the couch.

“What’s wrong, babies?” Lance questions, eyes scanning the surroundings and grip clammy on the hilt of the katana, still in its sheath. “Why are you acting so – _whoa!_ ”

The shattered remains of a lightbulb _that has turned on for a split second before flickering out_ \- he isn’t _seeing things_ unless there was something very very _wrong_ with Garrison’s tap water - rain down on the couch and the dogs make startled noises, Pongo whining loudly.

Cheese on crackers, what the hell.

“Ha… ha ha ha, okay this is kind of _weird_ ,” Lance laughs to himself, knees trembling so badly that he barely manages to stand still. He takes in a deep breath but it does nothing to calm his frayed nerves. “There's probably something wrong with the electricity, right? I’m sure there’s a perfectly good and logical explanation as to why the lights are suddenly flickering – _gah!_ “ The door that he’s left open, closes harshly as though it’s been slammed shut by some unseen force. Lance feels the blood draining from his face at that, the grip on the katana almost nonexistent due to all that palm sweat.

“This place isn’t haunted, you’ve lived here for a few years, you’d know if you have the boogeyman under your couch by now,” Lance babbles, eyes screwed shut in fear and shoulders hunched. Probably a bad reaction if there truly is a psycho killer inside the flat and hiding in Lance’s room, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He’s not sure what would be worse: getting stabbed to death with a box cutter or ending up as some poor white victim making extremely bad choices in a cliché movie about ghosts. “This isn’t the first five minutes of Supernatural, this isn’t the first five minutes of Supernatural,“ Lance chants nervously, finally opening his eyes and slinking closer to the bedroom, hand shaky on the handle.

He is going to die from a heart attack. He's had a good life.

Lance pushes the door open with an unwanted groan of the hinges and bites back a wince, only to nearly crumble down when he sees _a man in the goddamn bedroom_ , facing away.

No one has ever prepared him for these situations.

Lance brandishes the sword awkwardly as though it's a baseball bat. With a shrill war cry, he attempts to lunge at the probably-a-psycho-killer to knock him out. He’s too nervous to think of any good strategies and realize that he's just given away his position by screaming bloody murder - hey, _maybe someone will call the cops_ , 'cept his neighbors are probably deaf because they never complain when they decide to have band practice at Lance’s apartment – when he feels himself slamming against some sort of invisible wall, bouncing off it as though he's a ball.

The guy turns to face him with the type of slowness that belongs in horror movies, shooting Lance a hard glare. His eyes are _glowing_ a vicious purple when he speaks up, voice echoing as though they’re standing in a huge empty room. “Jesus, this must be hell if you’re constantly yelling like this.”

Lance kind of wants to yell ‘what the fuck is going on’ but his voice is lost on him completely. He settles for sitting on the floor, heart beating wildly in the back of his throat. He's short on breath as though he's ran a marathon. In the end, what comes out of Lance's mouth, is a small “what are you doing in my apartment?”

It’s so _garbled_ that the guy (?) squints those creepy glowing eyes, trying to decipher the sentence. A cold breeze filters into the room.

Whoever they are, they’re clearly _not human_ , Lance frantically thinks, because it is _literally impossible_ for there to be a breeze inside his bedroom. All of the windows are sealed shut.

Hell, what the fuck did he just run into? Why couldn’t he _reach_ the other?

Curse him and his ‘eventful Friday’ needs. Or wait, don’t! No _curses_. What does the other man (???) want? Lance’s never seen this guy before; it can’t be some vengeful spirit, right?

The probably-not-a-psycho-killer looks around, exhaling softly. His pretty face darkens even further. “ _Great_. I finally get some hard-earned peace and I’m not even in the afterlife. Is this really not hell?” he questions again, looking a little confused.

Lance stiffly shakes his head no.

“Can’t be heaven either, I assume. I don’t think you’d be there, no offense.” The guy stands and dusts off his tight pants. Lance’s lower lip quivers when he realizes that there’s a pale glow to the other’s skin. Pretty damn supernatural, if you ask him. Maybe 'death by a psycho killer with a box cutter' isn't such a bad idea after all. “Can’t even die in peace these days,” the spirit man grumbles and the bedroom door begins creaking as though it's being pushed back and forth by a breeze. Lance squeaks in fear and scrambles away, heaving.

The spirit looks vaguely amused by the sudden action. Lance feels himself starting to hyperventilate. He points a shaky finger at the door that now stays still. “I-If y-you're the one d-d-doing this...! D-D-Don’t do that!” Lance manages to rasp out through the chattering of teeth, quickly getting up from the floor and seriously considering the idea of fleeing and spending the rest of his days in intense psychiatric care. There’s no way that this is actually happening. “Wh-Who are you!? What are you doing here!? Am I going crazy? I must be going crazy because there’s no way that something like this exists and I can’t actually be speaking to – whatever it is that you are!” He frantically gestures, one hand still tight around the katana. He does realize that there’s no way to fight off a supernatural being with something solid like this. It’d go right through it, right!? He’s still going to try it if the small cross that's always hanging around his neck fails him now.

The spooky guy seems annoyed again. Lance shuts his mouth immediately. “You talk too damn much. One question at a time. I think – I think that I’m a spirit. Or just a ghost, if you wanna call me that. I always knew that they actually existed!” The man looks at his solid fingers in amazement. He isn’t transparent or… _very ghostly_ at all, minus the eyes and the faint glow, of course. His eerie indigo eyes cloud for a moment. “I… I don’t really know how I know that. All I can remember is that I died and my name. Nothing else.”

Lance, _a bit_ reassured that he isn’t a complete loony case – okay, maybe he still thinks that he’s tripping on that tap water coz there’s no way in hell that he’s stuck with _a dead guy having an existential crisis_  – attempts to stand up. After the third time he finally manages to make his jelly-like legs listen. “Look, man, I don’t know what your big deal is but I certainly didn’t order an episode of Ghostbusters in real life, so if you don’t mind, could you go haunt things and rattle chains someplace else? You’re kind of scaring my dogs here. Oh, and me. I think I’m going to need a whole lot of vodka and therapy after this,“ Lance whines and rubs at his eyelids, hoping that the guy will disappear the moment he opens his eyes. He doesn’t, _still there_ , looking around the bedroom with a hand placed on his sharp chin.

Lance watches the other casually kill one of his cacti with a single touch and whisper ‘fascinating’.

“Hey!” Lance grumbles and rushes to the multiple plants placed on the windowsill, cradling the colorful clay pots to his chest. The sudden action makes his elbow brush against the ghost man’s forearm.

No, that’s a wrong term to use – _his elbow goes right through it._

Lance barely manages to catch a cacti pot before it crashes.

The feeling is sickening to say the least. It feels like stepping into an ice-cold shower and then going outside in the middle of the snowstorm, but it's an awful lot more _dreadful_ than that. It's like your heart just got swallowed by a black hole – Lance honestly doesn't have enough words in his vocabulary that can accurately describe how _bad_ it feels to pass through a spirit.

It makes the duo fall quiet, their eyes growing wide. The reality and graveness of their situation finally settles in.

“You’re actually a ghost/I’m actually dead,” they echo at the same time and the spirit takes a few cautious steps away from Lance, looking somewhat guilty. Guilty for touching Lance like that maybe, but the musician sees no sadness in the mystery ghost’s eyes regarding his current state.

Lance has no idea how to react. Freaking out seems to be an option but something holds him back.

He almost wants to ask the other how he died but the spirit beats him to it. “I think you’re right. I should be on my way now. There’s obviously been some sort of misunderstanding, I’m pretty sure I’m not here to haunt you or whatever. Anyway, I gotta go. Got chains to rattle, wail in abandoned buildings - seems like a boring eternity awaits.” It’s probably meant to be lighthearted but the other's tone makes the short hairs on the nape of Lance’s neck stand. “I, uh, hope this wasn’t too traumatizing for you and your pets. Good day.”

Lance stands very still and blinks rapidly, watching the guy leave the living room. The ghost fucks off from his apartment right through the front door like a human being.

The dogs stop whining, Pongo finally pulling away from the couch - Perdita, of course, stuck. Lance pets the poor dog that looks just as shaken as he feels and moves to help the other one. Before he can do anything, a high-pitched sound like a mic being dropped reaches his ears and Lance gets an armful of the mulleted spirit from before. It’s bizarre because it feels as though he’s collided with an _actual human body_ - his back hurts from the painful fall and the extra weight. The spirit quickly pushes away and begins pacing, running frantic fingers through the pitch-black hair.

Lance swallows nervously, trying to force a smile. “Forgot something?”

The guy stops, eyes wide. “Other than everything? I also can’t leave.”

Lance feels nervous sweat breaking out yet again. Pongo is trembling under the carpet. Lance seriously considers joining his pet and pretending that all of this is a bad dream. “Wh-what do you mean you can’t leave? You’re a spirit, right? You can go anywhere; the laws of physics no longer apply to you. And you said that you’re not here to haunt me or anything!” Lance wants to gesture towards the door but feels like he might be dealing with way too much to comprehend right now.

“It’s like there’s some sort of force pulling me back,” the ghost explains. Lance sees the lamp beginning to sway to the sides and his belongings rattle. Shit. _Shit shit shit._ “Like, like some stretchy piece of gum is attached to my waist and this place? I don’t understand!? I don’t even know you. Then again, even if I knew you, I have no way of knowing this in my current state _because I can’t remember anything_. I’m not even sure where I am right now. What’s my relation to you? They say that you can’t cross over to the other side if you have some unfinished business left but I don’t know what that might be, I – “

“Hey, man, you have to calm down!” Lance yells in panic when he sees his shit beginning to float as though this is some badly written show with fake exorcists. Except that this is less funny and more downright spooky. Lance’s katanas lazily form a circle in the air and Lance chokes. “Seriously, if you don’t stop I’m gonna die and that doesn’t sound too appealing right now no matter how much I bitch about my life!” Lance confesses, holding onto the vibrating weapon. It feels as though it’s being magnetized, pulled in to join the other five.

The spirit guy curls into himself, glowing a pale white, inky strands floating around the creepy eyes. Lance brandishes the katana just in case. “Look I’m really sorry that you’re stuck here. It must be hard to finally kick the bucket and find yourself back at this shithole, but I’ll help you look for a way. Just calm down and let’s talk about this. You’re not alone in this, damn it!” Lance tries to keep his voice strong though he’s positively quaking in his boots. The spirit guy looks up.

All of his things drop to their rightful places with a soft thud and the katanas propel themselves in different directions, one nearly catching Lance’s cheek. He manages to deflect it at the last moment.

“Whoa there, samurai…” Lance breathes out a sigh of relief once he sees the guy calming down, resembling a person rather than some warped poltergeist. Okay so, the ‘goes ghost when emotionally distressed’ checkbox is finally marked.

The guy blinks at him, wide eyes confused. He looks at the wreck that is Lance’s weapons. “Why do you have these, anyway? I could’ve accidentally killed you.”

“Dully noted, especially during the part where they all decided to point themselves at me,” Lance wheezes, grabbing his chest. “I collect them. Back when I was a kid I was really fascinated by, uh.”

The ghost guy quirks an eyebrow. “By?”

“By anime.”

The guy rolls his eyes, seemingly disappointed.

Lance feels the urge to defend his interests. “Hey, Bleach was some good shit back when I was a kid and it grew into an actual interest in katanas. This one was gifted to me by my older brother after he traveled across the world with his wife.“ Lance presents his ghost pal the weapon and turns around. “The one that nearly stabbed me in the face was given to me by one of my best friends who’s going to flip when I tell her about the situation I’m stuck in.” Lance sighs when he thinks about Pidge’s extensive knowledge of conspiracy theories and her obsession with this sort of abnormal stuff in general. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen Pidge wear something unrelated to space or that wasn’t at least a vague reference to ‘the truth is out there’.

For a moment, the local friendly ghost’s eyes are trained on Lance’s strange grip on the weapon. He purses his lips. “You’re holding it wrong.”

Lance blows a raspberry. “How’d you know, samurai?”

The black-haired man’s eyebrows furrow. “I have no idea. I just get a weird feeling when I look at how you’re holding it. Feels really off.”

“Maybe you did fencing in your prior life?” Lance guesses and goes to collect the rest of the weapons. His dogs won’t come out no matter how much he tries to coax them.

The spirit settles on the couch, making the dog stuck under it go insane. He gets up immediately while Lance frees the poor thing. She quickly disappears in the bedroom, barking.

Lance rejoins the stricken guy. At least nothing's floating. “So? What’s the plan?”

“The plan is that I’ll try to leave either way. Maybe there’s some gap in this… condition, or whatever’s been placed on me and I’ll manage to get away. If not… I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that yet,” he looks at his pale hands.

Lance actually feels some pity for the guy. He wants to rub his shoulder to console but lets go of that idea when he recalls the feeling of what can only be described as _death_ on his arm. “Try that for now. I think I’m going to contact my friends and bring them the dogs. They… don’t seem to be handling you too well.” Pongo has his head out from under the carpet, looking straight at their ‘guest’. He probably cannot see the other, but the fact that he senses the ghost’s presence is undeniable.

“Alright,” the black-haired man agrees, getting up. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Right,” Lance says and takes out his phone. “By the way, do you have a name or do I keep calling you ‘samurai’, samurai?”

The other frowns in distaste. “Keith will suffice.”

“Alright, Mullet Man.”

“ _Keith._ ”

“That was a joke, don’t go all Avatar state on me. I’m Lance,” he introduces himself, settling for a friendly wave. “I hope you’re not here to haunt me, I’m not very entertaining. Rattling chains is probably a better career choice for you.”

“Oh ha ha,” the not-a-serial-killer-but-rather-a-ghost-with-telekinesis-powers-etc-etc scoffs and goes for the door once more. “I’ll try not to prolong my visit, if possible.”

And just like that, Lance’s life starts speeding up a little.

* * *

 

I fucking knew it.

You are doing drugs, aren’t you?

**Look, dude, there seriously is a ghost haunting me. Like, unwillingly, but still haunting me. It’s trying to leave through the window this time. I already explained it all, now can you please believe me, oh great conspiracy theorist, and help???**

Lance, seriously what the fuck are you on. Did you smoke weird shit again? Got drunk? Hit your head? Watched too much Sherlock?

**Why you gotta be so mean to me in my time of need??**

I’m not being mean, I’m just being a realist.

**Then face the reality and believe me! Why is it so easy for you to believe in illuminati and not the fact that I've got a ghost friend now.**

Remember those 6516515 times when you took me and Hunk out for tests of courage?

Remember that time Matt and I had to drag Hunk out of the cemetery, foaming at the mouth and babbling about Bloody Mary? Because I remember, Lance.

That’s why.

**Look that was a long time ago**

Last time was a month ago

**Irrelevant!**

**The point is that I’m being serious this time!!!**

Uh huh.

**I even have proof, you little gremlin.**

**[SENT AN IMAGE]**

**Illuminati soundtrack this!**

What am I supposed to be looking at, your frightened face covered by the dog features or the hovering pair of dog ears?

Snapchat filters do that all the time. This one time it swapped my face with a poster, so?

**Adksjnddksdj**

**YOU KNOW WHAT SCREW YOU**

**Also pls take in my babies for a little while, they’re scared of the ghost.**

* * *

 

“Keith, I appreciate you respecting my privacy... “ Lance groans into the pillow. It’s hard enough trying to sleep without the dogs on either side of him. “But I appreciate silence even more and the sound of you getting zapped back here is getting really fucking annoying!”

“Shit, sorry, I – “ more crashing sounds, followed by Keith’s colorful cursing. It’s been like, what now? Forty times _at least_? “This is so annoying!”

“I can feel you moving shit even from my bedroom, stop right there!” Lance warns. More thudding of stuff falling back into place. “Just try to, I dunno. Relax? Go to sleep? Can ghosts even disconnect or are you cursed to permanently waste away?”

“Oh, gee, Lance, thanks for the reminder,” Keith bites back sarcastically, head suddenly sticking through the closed door. Lance lets out a girlish scream and throws an extra pillow at the hovering head on reflex.

It slides down with a pitiful thud but Keith’s face is still there, looking thoroughly bemused. “Really?”

“I feel like we’re reenacting that scene in Harry Potter. You know the one where they throw stuff at that ghost girl? Points for the head, shoulder and stomach, I think?”

“Except that I could and will not hesitate to rip out your kidneys if you keep this up,” Keith says in monotone. “Sweet dreams.”

“You are the literal worst!” Lance yells after him, huffing. “I want a ghost refund! At least give me someone fun instead of a total brood!”

Keith sticks out his middle finger through the door.

* * *

 

Keith doesn’t sleep nor does he dream. Being a ghost feels an awful lot like zoning out – one moment it’s a little past 1 am, and the next moment he blinks, it’s already 3.

If this is what wasting away is all about, maybe he can do this. He could spend an eternity bound to this apartment. Maybe Lance will get fed up with him, pack his stuff and move out? Then Keith can haunt it, rattle some things, make the furniture float a little and hopefully no one will ever want to live here again. Well, at least it’s better than some dingy cemetery or an abandoned building.

The view is nice and the place in itself is cozy, if not a little clustered by Lance’s belongings. He isn’t too organized; the tables and every flat surface available are covered in piles of music sheets along with notebooks full of half-finished song lyrics. A few acoustic guitars lay here and there, the floor is covered in chewed up squeaky toys, and the trash bin is overflowing with rolled up paper balls. Where there’s no paper, various plants occupy the spaces, some of them looking a little torn up, probably the work of Lance’s pets.

How… unlike him. Keith kind of expected the other to be an annoying employee at some agency. Maybe marketing. He seems good enough at bullshitting.

If he concentrates enough, he can lift the notebooks and easily flip through them, feeling a little like he’s intruding. Most of the songs are indecipherable – Lance’s handwriting is messy at best – full of highlighter marks and crudely drawn doodles of spaceships.

The themes seem to revolve around self-confidence and the importance of freedom, support. There are some love songs in there as well but Keith carefully avoids those, feeling it to be too personal. Most of them are full of black marker lines either way, as though it was a torture for Lance to write them down.

Something about those songs makes Keith’s mind shut down and he drifts in and out of whatever state that he’s in, gaze focused on the ceiling.

He _remembers._

* * *

 

In hindsight, an asthma attack in the middle of the day wasn’t such a bad way to go. Perhaps it wasn’t the way he had expected to give up the ghost – ha, irony! – but an eternity of hard-earned peace didn’t sound too bad either, especially when he blacked out in the middle of the busy street, cursing his missing inhalator.

Hey, at least he didn’t actually kill himself. Keith was beginning to take those insults about his ‘miserable existence’ way too seriously.

He turns over on the couch, looking at the closed door of the only bedroom. If Keith isn’t stuck here because god has decided that he's unworthy of going anywhere due to some dumb suicide, then what's the real reason? What's his purpose here? Of all the possible places to go to, why did he end up here specifically, especially if Lance has never met him before? Why not somewhere in his old apartment? Wherever he lived? Why not _his family_?

“Just who are you, Lance?”

* * *

 

“Time to get up.”

Lance blinks, bleary-eyed. He yawns, not used to getting up so early. His mind is still fuzzy with a haze of sleep clouding it. Lance stretches out his long limbs and stifles another wide yawn, turning over in the soft bed. “Morning – _whoa there!_ ”

He’s met with a pair of glowing eyes, recoiling immediately. The movement is so sudden that Lance falls out of the bed, back painfully colliding with the floor when he tips over the edge.

“Don’t you have better things to do than to creepily hover next to sleeping people?” he grumbles, angry because of the rather rude awakening.

“I do, but I got bored. By the way, you drool in your sleep,” Keith points out with a shrug.

“I - Wha?” Lance quickly scrubs away the remains of drool from his lips, making sure that the movement is discreet. He fails miserably. “I do not!”

“Yeah and that slobber on your pillow can be explained by a magical hole in the ceiling. On the tenth floor of a thirteen-floor building.”

“How do I know that’s not your ghost… ectoplasm… stuff!?” Lance tries to bullshit only to fail miserably.

Keith scrunches up his nose, seemingly disgusted. “Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

Lance points a finger at him, triumphant. “A-ha! You don’t really know _for sure_ , so anything goes! Now, are you gonna be a creep and watch me dress or will you politely leave and continue thinking about the meaningless mash up of death and life?”

“Been there, done that.”

“Wow.”

“Also you’re not my type, so don’t mind if I don’t stay,” Keith says matter-of-factly, waving a dismissing hand in the air, hovering. Huh, since when could he do that?

Lance’s face colors a deep beet-red at such a crude implication. “I! How dare you, I’m everyone’s type!” he desperately defends his pride, a hand placed on the chest.

“If 'everyone' falls into the category of ‘alive people’. I’m kind of dead, man, I don’t exactly feel anything.” _‘Felt stuff just fine when you threw my katana collection at me_ ’, Keith hears the other mutter under his breath. He chooses to stay silent, only eyerolls in reply.

“Oh please, pretty boy, if you were,” - Lance air quotes -” _alive_ right now, you would soooo be swooning over this piece of beautiful man meat.”

Keith almost wants to blow a raspberry at that, embarrassed in brunet's stead. “Tell yourself whatever makes you feel better.” He fixes the black strands of his long fringe. At least he won’t ever have to bother with the barbers again. He knew there’d be some perks in dying. “Nice to know that I’m your type despite being dead.”

“Whu – “

“ _Pretty boy_ ,” Keith smugly reminds, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Lance gapes, nervous sweat gathering on his brow. “I didn’t say that.”

“Pretty. Boy.”

“Are all ghosts this annoying or is it just you?”

“Pre – “

“Don’t.”

Done with his teasing, Keith goes for the door. “Just get up already.”

“Don’t boss me around inside my own house, asshole,” Lance yells after him and moodily makes the bed, punching the pillow. The back of his neck is still warm.

Yikes, it’s like owning a needy pet.

* * *

 

Keith tries very hard not to stare at Lance indulging some black tar that he calls _morning coffee_ and nibbling on a very fine looking omelet. Apparently the other is a great cook, judging by the looks of it. Keith can’t really smell anything nor does he feel hunger. In fact, he barely feels anything, except for those few instances where he got really emotional.

Initially, he's kind of expected to feel some sort void inside his heart - a never-ending unexplained sadness that's often associated with ghosts, but he’s somehow managed to dodge that bullet in particular, so there’s that. He and Lance do some catching up on the world – while Keith doesn’t remember his exact death date, he estimates that not a lot of time must’ve passed – and then the questions that he’s been thinking of for most of the night come tumbling out of his mouth.

“Are you a psychic?”

Lance nearly spits out the coffee. “Excuse me?”

Keith frowns. “You know, seeing ghosts, third eyes. I don’t know how that stuff works.”

To his confusion, Lance cracks up laughing. “Dude, _oh my god._ ”

Keith raises an eyebrow.

“I was going to knock you out. With my _katana_. Does it look like I’ve dealt with supernatural before? Wasn’t it pretty clear from my reaction that I never even considered the idea of getting stuck in a situation like this? I never believed in ghosts and all that. Maybe karma, lucks, horoscopes and all, but never actual…” He waves a spoon in Keith’s direction and takes another bite. “It’s Pidge’s thing, not mine.”

“I see…” Keith hums, tapping his chin lightly. Lance notices that this is somewhat of a habit. “What about your family members? Are they gifted with this?”

“Nah,” Lance waves him off. “I mean, Gran was seeing things all the time but she was plain crazy. No ghosts either way, though, only 'goddamn capitalists' and Nixon.”

Keith exhales through his nose, slow. “I honestly don’t know where to start. We’ll have to find out why I’m bound to you – or your apartment, stop looking at me like that – one way or another. And I guess that requires finding an actual psychic. Good luck with that, knowing just how many frauds are out there.”

“Wait, you wanna tell me that there are _actual psychics_ out there?”

“If there are spirits like me then there have to be psychics as well, right? Maybe you’re a psychic too and you have just awakened.”

“Aww, my first ghostie customer,” Lance coos, putting his face in his hands. “I’d be flattered if I wasn’t desperate to get down to the bottom of this.” He collects the dirty dishes and stacks them in the sink for later cleaning. “Well, worst case scenario - I’m gonna call in a priest to perform an exorcism on you, oh lost spirit of the underworld.”

“Why are you like this.”

Lance shrugs, a smooth and elegant motion. “I’ve got a ghost in my house, I think I’m allowed some emotional outlets.”

“You’d be hurting my ghostly feelings if I had any,” Keith says, sarcastic, holding his chest.

“Something tells me that you're exactly the same as when you were alive, Keithy-boy.”

* * *

 

Lance calls in sick that day and the gig is cancelled. Keith feels a little off because of it but Lance only waves a dismissing hand.

“The hottest, rising psychic star of 21st century and the future winner of ‘Psychic Battles’ has to help his ghost clients to cross over into the other plane of existence. Hopefully a better one than this,” he shrugs it off and goes back to surfing the net for the least shady-looking psychic bureau numbers. Meanwhile, Keith shuffles through the phone books and advertisements.

They end up talking about their concept of heaven and hell. To Lance, those two seem to be filled with biblical imagery - the typical suffering and eternal burning in tar versus the gates of gold with angels and anything the heart wishes for. To Keith, well –

“I don’t really believe in heaven or hell. I think that afterwards it’s just a game over. “

“You seemed to believe it just fine when we first met.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“So… no angels and demons for you?” Lance wonders, writing down some numbers.

Keith contemplates his answer for a bit. “No. Just eternal peace of mind. The void, if you will.”

Lance huffs. “Boooooring. And really edgy, wow. If I had to choose between the void and sticking around, I think I’d gladly make myself some ghostly popcorn and enjoy the ride. It’d be like watching a good drama I bet. Plus you can occasionally scare people shitless, it’s like one of my fave things to do.”

Then, Lance drones on about his band-mates and the scare scoreboard that they have – Lance, of course, reigning supreme.

“You’re kind of irredeemable. That poor friend of yours,“ Keith mutters, looking at the picture that the brunet has provided. They seem really happy, goofy grins on their faces. It was taken after their first big gig, or so Lance has said.

“He’s strong, that’s why I keep testing him. He’s gonna have thicker skin!” Lance lamely explains himself. He’s not lying, though. Hunk’s no longer a huge scaredy cat, knowing exactly when to call Lance out on his bullshit.

“I wish I had stories to share. You’ve been doing an awful lot of talking,” Keith trails off, shoulders hunched.

“Hey, we’ve got time for this,” Lance offers.

They both know that Keith remembering more details is probably impossible. He's already tried several times, only to be stopped by Lance, papers scattering in the air.

* * *

 

They’re both pleasantly surprised when Lance discovers that Keith can leave.

The plot twist being that Keith is constantly stuck by Lance’s side. It really does seem like they’re connected by the finger with one of those stretchy Chinese toys.

“Well, we can cross out the ‘apartment haunting’, I guess,” Keith says and looks around with a blank face. He has no idea where he is, completely unfamiliar with the surroundings.

No one seems to notice the fact that Lance isn’t alone, confirming their theory that Lance might actually be a born esper, no matter how dumb and far-fetched it sounds.

The first guy they hit is a complete letdown.

Lance nearly chokes at the sharp scent of Indian incense grating against his nose and the guy that meets them reminds him of every shady con artist out there. He slides in to meet his guests dressed in tacky ceremonial clothes perhaps fit for shamanism rituals and obviously purchased at the nearest party store. His hair is a silvery white and the strong scent of weed that comes from him easily overpowers the cherry scents of candle wax mixing with wispy smoke tendrils that kind of remind Lance of his Gran’s apartment.

The guy promises that he’ll be with them in a minute and Lance sits on an ancient office chair, shoulders stiff. “How high do you think he is?” Lance lips at Keith, craning his neck to see into the side-room. It’s too dark to fully make out anything.

“High enough to see some visions of majestic dragons, no doubt,” Keith replies, awkwardly standing by Lance’s side. He too, turns his head in the side-room’s direction. “This guy is a waste of our time and your cash.”

“Well, he already took it so there’s not much to be done about it. Let’s hear him out, maybe he has something interesting to say. ‘Sides, that chick looked trust-worthy!” Lance defends, trying to keep it down.

“Which part? She was just as suspicious as he is.”

“And since when are you a shining female expert?”

“I don’t claim myself as one but I have eyes and I can see when a woman is trying to lure out some easy ca – “

“Bothered by your friend there?” the shady ‘psychic’ asks, suddenly by their side, and Lance looks up in surprise. Keith seems to be taken aback too, shutting up immediately.

However, the shady-looking guy just points at Lance’s vibrating phone placed on the cluttered, sticky desk. They haven’t paid attention to the incoming call, lost in their argument. “Phone’s off during the session, man, gets in the way of me reading the vibes.”

Keith silently whispers ‘oh, this oughta be good’ with a sassy hip pop and Lance discreetly glares at him.

The guy settles before him and crosses his ankles on the chair, closing his eyes. “Well then, shall we get started?”

* * *

 

“That was the biggest pile of bullshit in my entire life,” Lance groans, throwing his arms into the air. Keith has that look on his face that just screams ‘I told you so’. “I thought that he was sleeping at one point. He honestly gave me jack shit advice and told me to’ look for the signs’, whatever the fuck that means! I can’t believe that they are one of the highest-rated bureaus out there!”

“Did it ever occur to you that they might’ve done some review altering?”

“Why would you do something like that!?”

“Are you for real right now or are you just mindlessly saying stuff, I’m not sure which one.”

“Hey, I tried and you didn’t even say thank you.”

“I would’ve said thank you if you had actually listened to me and we would’ve walked out the way we came from the moment he was too busy putting on mascara,” Keith flares up. A trashcan explodes nearby, people giving it confused stares. “Plus I couldn’t see anything in his aura. Seemed like a basic liar.”

Lance stops mid-step, breath coming out in white puffs. “You can see auras?”

Keith nearly gets flustered by the other’s sudden intensity. “It’s less seeing auras and more just… what kind of person they are beneath exterior. For example, that couple over there,” he points out a random pair on the very busy street, the guy whispering something to a flustered girl. “Whatever that guy is currently telling her, he’s lying through his teeth.”

Lance breathes out an amazed sigh, starry-eyed. “Whoa… it’s kind of like having super powers. You could actually fight crime like this.”

 _‘Except that no one can see me besides you’_ goes unvoiced by the black-haired ghost.

“Just… out of curiosity, what does my aura look like?”

Keith’s taken off guard by this request. He’s never taken a good look at Lance, he’s never actually thought that he could see anything besides the human exterior until he walked out into the city with the other.

Lance, he’s… warm. A calming orange glow of a fireplace in the deepest winter. A comforting candlelight after a sudden the lights-out. The mesmerizing ember of a cigarette in the dusk when it gets dark enough. The sun rays reflecting off a lake's surface.

Keith makes a show of squinting at the other and hums for a little while.

Lance fidgets nervously. “Well?”

“It’s brown. A muddy brown because you’re a giant shithead.”

And he goes a few of those in-range meters ahead.

Lance angrily chases after him. Some people look his way, eyebrows quirked.

* * *

 

The next three days are also a no-go. Lance progressively gets tired and annoyed and Keith knows that it has less to do with his presence and more with the other feeling angry at himself for being unable to find a reliable source.

In an attempt to subtly cheer the other up, Keith moves some stuff around in the middle of a séance and makes some ‘psychic’s’ vases explode. The frightened look on her face drags out some muffled laughter from Lance, but that’s about it.

“You should probably stop wasting money on me like this,” Keith says it how it is after yet another bust.

“It’s my cash and I do what I want, so deal with it, Mullet!” Lance hisses and then goes to the nearest 7/11, grabbing a bottle of the cheapest-looking vodka out there, drowning out Keith’s _don’t’_ s with loud music blasting from his earbuds.

It’s not like he can actually tell Lance what he should and shouldn’t do, so he only watches the other trying to drink himself into a coma, carefully hidden out of sight. Lance, for the lack of a better word, looks damn miserable.

“Can’t even help a single soul, what are you even good for, McClain?” Lance mutters after the fourth glass, running a hand over his face. Keith thinks that it’s the right time for him to step in but the doorbell rings.

Lance flops down on the couch. “Go away.”

“Um, dude, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Pidge thinks you might be dying or fatally injured. I’m here with some Chinese takeout and a bottle of cough drops.”

Fuck, right, he’s supposed to be feigning sick. With a muffled curse, the brunet peels himself away from the comfy couch and nearly crawls to the door, unable to stand.

He unlocks it and falls into his best friend’s chest.

“Whoa there, Pidge wasn’t kidding about you dying – wait a sec, are you wasted!?” Hunk scrunches up his nose in distaste and straightens Lance up. Keith curiously peers at them from the hallway, arms crossed over his chest. He kind of expects the bigger man to give the other a good scolding - it’s what he needs right now to get his head in the game - but Hunk’s amber eyes only gloss over with a painful sort of understanding. “Is it about _him_ again?”

Lance lets out a string of incomprehensible noises, head lolling, eyes closed.

Hunk sighs. “Buddy, we’ve talked about this. No more moping around.”

“’S not about th’ guy…” Lance trails off and lets himself get collected in the other's arms, hugging his friend's neck loosely. Keith politely moves out of the way, not wanting to cause the others any discomfort.

“And hup!” Hunk sets Lance down and pushes his long legs aside, taking a seat. He places the bag with food on the table. “You hungry?”

Lance shakes his head no and snuggles into the small pillows. With bleary eyes, he observes his friend eating, uncharacteristically quiet.

“You know…” Hunk continues, pushing around a piece of paprika in the cardboard box. “I think that it’s a good thing you moved. You got better, and if I were to take your word for it – you’re not drinking because of the past. So, something else is up. Talk to me, Lance. You’ve been really quiet lately and you’re clearly not sick.”

“’m not sick.”

“It’s what I said.”

“Mhh.”

Hunk waits for a few moments, looking at the other. Lance makes no move to speak.

“Well?”

Keith takes a seat on one of the tables, ankles crossed and swinging. His curiosity has been piqued. Maybe the key to their connection lies in Lance’s past?

“I don’ wanna talk about it,” Lance rolls over, facing away. He still does, however, even if moments later. “Met a guy. Reminded me too much of him. Sucks. He’s really good though compared to… him. He’s got some heavy shit to deal with and I’m trying to help out as much as I can but my best ain't good enough.”

Keith’s legs stop swinging, grip tightening on the wood to ground himself before he can make something explode.

“You gotta stop beating yourself down because of this. You’re not going to solve everyone’s problems, accept it already. And this guy, as you said, is different. He’s not going to blame you for anything.”

“Of course he’s not gonna,” Lance’s voice is muffled by the palms that rest on his face. “He’s dead.”

Keith experiences something close to the feeling of a stomach-drop. He’s beginning to feel too strongly about this, it’s not good. He wills himself to calm down.

Lance’s muffled crying takes off the edge of his impending telekinetic explosion.

Hunk stays silent, looking lost deep in thought, trying to decipher Lance’s words.

The brunet calms down after a minute or so and sits up, wiping away the mixture of snot and tears. His grin seems natural, no matter how painful. “Hunk, my dude… I see dead people.”

Hunk looks at Lance with a fond sort of look on his face. Keith thinks that anyone else would’ve been freaked out by such a statement, but the other only huffs a quiet laugh, patting Lance’s shoulder affectionately.

“Don’t we all, man.”

Lance passes out soon after. The taller man only pulls a blanket over him and leaves.

* * *

 

Keith observes Lance's sleeping form for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

“Sorry for whatever you might’ve heard yesterday. I cannot be held accountable for anything I say or do while intoxicated,” Lance mutters, still cocooned in the blankets, hair a rat’s nest. He nibbles on the re-heated yesterday’s takeout. Keith sees that the brunet’s hungover – if the three trips to the bathroom to empty his stomach content weren’t enough to judge by.

“I won’t ask if you don’t want to share it,” Keith says, perching on the windowsill between the luscious plants. He’s careful not to touch anything and he has cleared some away for the extra space.

Lance doesn’t bother to look up. He’s already hissing at the smallest rays of light. “Since when are you such a good guy?”

“Since day one.”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

“I’m only nice to those who are nice to me in return.”

“…Sorry that I make you feel that way,” Lance trails off, setting down the chopsticks. He curls up into a ball, hugging his knees close.

Keith shifts his pose, ready to hop off the windowsill if needed. “No, you – “

“I was pretty rude considering the situation that you’re stuck in. Ugh, forget it. Forget everything that you've heard, actually.”

Keith takes in a sharp breath, looking at the ground. “I – I’m gonna be honest with you – I don’t think I can. I’m good at pretending, though, so we can do that. I’ll always wonder but I’m not going to ask because you seem really unhappy with – “

“You’ve been looking at my song notes, right?” Lance gets up, going to the coffee table. He shifts around the piles of music sheets and digs out a shabby-looking notebook, the cover wrinkled and yellowed from the age and use. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed – my mess is organized. I know exactly where everything goes.”

“Caught red-handed,” Keith admits with some bizarre and surreal sense of shame, raising his arms.

“Most of these,” Lance flips through the pages, not bothering to check them. “Are written for my ex.”

 _Ah._ Now that kind of makes sense. Keith decides to stick to Hunk’s tactics. Seems like pressure doesn't work with Lance. If you stay quiet, he talks.

He stops at a particularly blackened page, one lip curling up with distaste. “Wow these are desperate; I could be christened Tailor Swift the Second. I liked the ones I wrote after the break up better. Sounded nicer.” He shrugs and throws the notes over his shoulder to rest on the couch and plucks out another notebook to go over. “Anyways, the point is that I was a desperate little seventeen-year-old and I honestly believed that this guy was actually planning to spend the rest of his shitty life with me. Kind of believed it until I turned twenty-four. Even had a ring to confirm it.“ Lance wiggles the fingers of his left hand in front of Keith’s stunned face. “Well, it didn’t work out between us, something about non-matching horoscopes and clashing personalities. Basically, we weren’t meant to be and broke it off. The end.” Lance throws that notebook down as well.

He makes it seem like a no big deal but Keith knows the truth, has seen the bits and pieces of Lance’s true personality shining through the cracks of the cheerful ever-present mask. Keith’s face must betray his inner turmoil because Lance’s forged smile fades away in an instant.

“Just so you know,” Keith coughs into his fist. “You’ve already done a lot for me. Anyone else would’ve called an exorcist right from the get-go.“ Lance huffs an incredulous laugh at that. “But you didn’t really freak out or go insane on me or made a show out of this. Thanks for that. So I don’t think there’s anything for you to worry about. I won’t ever make you feel the way he did?” Keith finishes his speech, flustered and unsure.

They're diving into uncharted waters here and he doesn't know how to feel about this, what to think. Especially with his current and possibly permanent, uh. Condition.

Lance smiles at that, this time genuine. “It’s fine. I know you won’t. You may resemble him in some weird way, but you two are completely different. There’s just something about you, Keith,” he takes a step forward and the ghost takes a step back, swallowing.

“I think that’s the supernatural connection of our _very supernatural_ bond talking.”

“I don’t know about the connection, but I know how I feel. About you, I mean.”

“And that might be…?”

Lance's shoulders sag. He looks otherworldly in this lighting, the bedhead making him look, _well._ If Keith was actually alive, he's pretty sure that he'd have no breath in his lungs. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell. Maybe something, maybe nothing.”

“That’s not cryptic at all.”

“I know right?”

“That was sarcasm.”

“I _know_.”

* * *

 

In the privacy of his room, Lance writes lyrics. Lyrics of a ghost, a forest, and a lost man. He hides the notes under the pillow just in case.

If Keith hears him working on the chords, he says nothing.

Hunk absolutely digs the new song and its theme while Pidge stays quiet.

* * *

 

Alright, ghost kisser, I’ve found one.

[SENT CONTACT CARD]

Try it. If it doesn’t work, well, I’ve got nothing.

**Thank you thank you thank you <3**

* * *

 

“I can’t believe that we’ve missed this one,” Keith says when Lance brushes away the brown bead curtains and goes inside the stuffed shop.

It reminds Lance of every magic-themed book that he’s ever read – a small room with a low ceiling, decked in old wooden planks, multiple dreamcatchers and dried plants hanging over the doorways and windows. All kinds of good luck charms from every region available are nailed to the old walls. The shelves are overflowing with strange smelling bottles and whatnot. Keith is midway trying to talk Lance out of touching a wolf-tooth necklace, all the while eyeing a particularly strange dreamcatcher himself, when the bell at the checkout chimes and a beautiful woman waves them over. Her hair is a stunning snow-white, complimenting the dark skin and the neon pink tattoos located under her eyes nicely. She and Lance exchange some pleasantries, followed by low-key flirting from Lance’s side that instantly gets brushed off. Keith isn’t listening because the more stairs they climb, the more his entire being _buzzes._

This is definitely the real deal.

Whoever their psychic is, they undeniably have the _talent_ to set things straight. Keith swallows nervously, dying to find out what their last attempt at salvation will look like.

Lance freezes by his side with a raised eyebrow, breathing out a small disappointed ‘oh’.

Well, the old guy in charge definitely doesn’t fit the image that Keith’s mind has conjured and obviously didn’t fit Lance’s from the looks of it. He’s a ginger man in his late forties with tattoos under his eyes, and the most ridiculous moustache Keith’s ever seen. His voice is rather strange, heavily-accented, and Lance immediately thinks of Nigel Thornberry.

One cautious look in Keith’s direction says enough.

“It’s okay, he’s the real deal,” Keith confirms with a sharp nod and Lance shoots a skeptic look at the guy again.

They get ushered inside by the girl – Allura, is her name – and psychic Nigel Thornberry offers Lance mint tea to clear the mind. The other accepts only because Allura smiles at him as if daring him to say no.

“And what would your name be, my boy?” the psychic asks over a cup of tea, his gaze minutely wandering to the spot behind Lance’s left shoulder, right where Keith stands. They never meet eyes, but Keith can tell that the older man is very aware of his presence.

Lance introduces himself and they exchange basic, daily life-related pleasantries before getting started. The man shuffles a deck of worn-down tarot cards, curiously observing Lance.

“Are you familiar with these readings?”

“No, sir,” Lance shakes his head, looking a bit uncomfortable.

The ginger man stares at him for a moment, humming lowly. He then smiles in reassurance. “Eh, I agree with your mindset, boy. Knowing what the future has in store for you isn’t all that great! Takes the fun out of everything, if I’m honest,” he sighs and flips a card, staring at it for a moment. “Apple sauce for breakfast tomorrow yet again. See? Boring.”

Lance glances at Keith for a moment. “Are you going to do anything about it? I mean, now that you know, it doesn’t have to be apple sauce.”

The psychic, Coran, stops his shuffling for a moment. “And that’s how these things work. They can tell you the future, but what you choose – in the end, it depends on you. You make your own destiny. Frankly, I will not refuse mine, I happen to like apple sauce quite a lot.” He moves his moustache in a funny sniff and asks Lance to divide the deck. When Lance is about to retract his fingers, Coran presses his palm back down to the cards, gaze oddly intense. “Knowing how you feel about faith and destiny, I can tell that this session does not interest you in the least. So I will ask your companion, the one who is looking for a place for themselves, to place their hand on top of yours.”

Keith’s a little startled - lately, being acknowledged by others has turned into a rather weird and completely unusual experience - but he obeys nonetheless, carefully placing a hand on top of Lance’s – or more accurately, trying not to make their limbs merge. He can still see the obvious quake that shakes him at the contact, however small.

Coran’s eyes don’t seem to miss that. He does his thing and looks over the results, twirling the end of his moustache.

“Hmm, well you definitely have a spirit attached to you. One that hasn’t made any excessive impact on your destiny in the past or present, but will strongly affect your life in the future. It’s a bond forged by immense mutual trust, one of the best kinds out there! But since it’s not what you currently care about, I will keep it a secret!”

Lance looks like he’s fighting back an urge to say something, driven by the sheer curiosity, but Coran already knows that the boy will not ask any more questions.

“So tell me, what is it exactly that you wish to know, Lance?”

Lance shifts in the seat, gnawing on his lower lip. “My spirit, our current bond and why… why it’s so attached to me.”

Coran flips through the cards with another prolonged hum. “The spirit that you have by your side is of a rare kind. It’s attached to you for a good reason that I have yet to find out. The card readings are a little off because of its presence. These spirits are detached from their physical form - they wander around aimlessly until their time runs out. Nothing in this plane of existence is permanent, not even ghosts. I mean, there are exceptions, family curses and whatnot, but this one isn’t cursed.”

Keith’s eyes widen. The warm liquid in Lance’s porcelain cup starts swirling around. “Is he trying to say...”

Having hope at this point is rather ridiculous, but if by any chance –

“What I’m trying to say here is that your friend is not dead.”

Lance chokes while Keith smacks his palms against the table top, making a solid connection with a loud bang. “Wh-what do you mean!? Ask him what he means!”

“I must warn our guest to calm down because I will not be able to get any readings,” Coran says calmly and takes a sip of the tea. Keith backs away in shame. “Thank you. This spirit’s body is currently in a state of sleep, a shell without what makes it whole. Comatose. The spirit is young in appearance and its existence – I can see the scars of a forceful separation.“ The psychic strokes his chin, observing something that neither Keith nor Lance can see. “If I’m correct, this kind of separation happens due to severe complications in surgery, um, perhaps your friend had to deal with a nasty brain tumor?”

“A severe asthma attack…” Keith mumbles.

Lance silently watches ‘his spirit’s’ shoulders slumping forward. “But if the spirit is young and if the body is comatose, is there… is there any way for it to return to its body?”

Keith feels something close to a sinking feeling in his gut when he sees the determined set of Lance’s jaw, the tight grip that he has on his knobby knees.

“That, even I cannot answer. I apologize.” The psychic’s gray eyes soften with sympathy. Lance looks thoroughly defeated by it. “Let’s carry on, shall we?”

It takes a few moments of silence for the séance to resume.

“I assume that the spirit attached to you is that of a female. A female you might’ve had some brief… relations with and who has left you something important of hers,” Coran says as he turns another card depicting an entwined couple, labeled ‘the Lovers’.

Lance shoots Keith a vaguely amused look. “A female? How can you tell something like that?”

“The aura surrounding your friend is vivid pink. Usually this color in particular manifests in women with strong emotional bonds towards the person who can see them.”

Lance’s little smirk makes Keith’s hair flare up as though blown by invisible wind. “Wh-What, I – It’s not _pink_! Tell him that I – “

Coran lets out a hearty guffaw. “I think that we’ve flustered the spirit seeing as the hue just intensified. It must be feeling shy. Worry not, I’m just joking!” he then adds with a wink, but everyone in the room can see right through that white lie.

“Keith, that’s so adorable, I’m melting!” Lance hides a snicker behind his palm and the other barely restrains himself from punching the brunet, uttering an embarrassed ‘shut it’.

“A male? My mistake for assuming!” Coran smiles and goes back to the cards, ignoring the seemingly one-sided bickering that follows.

His eyebrows furrow a moment later. “However, this spirit isn’t attached to you, Lance. It’s attached to something that you have on you. It probably meant a lot to him, a good luck charm of sorts, something radiating positivity, given with careful thought by someone he cares for and who cares in return. It’s small – has plastic and metal components. I can clearly see that it’s the shape of a distorted oval. My offer would be to check your belongings right now – whatever it is that the spirit wants, you have it. Otherwise it wouldn’t be able to move around with you.”

Lance stares with impossibly wide eyes and immediately empties all pockets, frantically ruffling through the pants. “I think - I think I know what you mean,“ he says with bated breath and Keith’s eyes scan the mess of coins, pens, what seem to be old dog treats and whatnot spread out on the table. His mind is screaming at him. _Not here_. “A few weeks ago I was performing at the Garrison and I found it lying on the floor after our gig. I planned on giving it to the bartenders for the lost and found, but in the end, I somehow forgot about its existence altogether. It’s been in my parka ever since.”

Lance shoves a hand into the inner pocket of the khaki parka. There!

What he retracts is a lone  _key_ , its top oval-shaped and covered in black plastic.

It’s out of his hand before he can even blink, Keith’s fingers tight around it.

It strangely feels like getting a part of his human senses back. To say that it’s overwhelming would be an understatement. He turns over the small object lying on his outstretched palm, fingertips tracing every dent and curve.

“Hey, bud, you alright?” Lance asks and attempts to stand up but Coran’s look seals his mouth shut.

“It… I think it’s been given to me by a family member,” Keith sniffles, voice shaky. It no longer has that echo-y tone to it. “Just. Just a feeling.”

Lance’s palm hovers at least an inch away from his arm, worry etched into every part of his face. “Keith, are you crying?”

It comes as a surprise to everyone in the room because of different reasons. Keith watches in amazement as clear droplets hit his palm, feels the sensation of unmistakable wetness, too shocked to find out that he still retains basic human functions like these. Lance is a fine mixture of concern and surprise, whereas Coran…

“If he is truly crying, there’s one thing I can guarantee for sure – your physical body cannot be too far away. The connection you have to it is supremely strong, it’s like you’re sleepwalking. Perhaps your body might even be in this city! Certainly, it’s somewhere in this region. I’m very sorry that I cannot pinpoint the exact location or narrow down the radius but I think that this key, my boys, might help you out. I have no way of knowing how the bonding system truly works, but there’s a huge chance that it’ll guide you to the right place.”

The young men exchange a look and Lance bows his head. “Thank you so much for helping us out. We’re very grateful.” Keith gives a sniff of gratitude.

Coran bashfully waves a hand. “It’s no biggie! I wish you boys all the best. Find what you’re looking for. Now!” The psychic rummages through one of the drawers and retracts a huge board with a bunch of numbers, lines, and stars carved into it. “For another fifty, I can make you a schedule of your lucky and bad days!”

Lance huffs a laugh, standing up. “That won’t be necessary. This is the luckiest day so far, no matter what the stars might say.”

* * *

 

Keith gives up the key rather unwillingly and only after Lance painstakingly explains to him that hovering keys might freak some normal people out.

“I mean, I wouldn’t pass up the chance to hum the Ghostbusters theme on any other occasion, but this is special,” he says when he pockets the key. “Now let’s hit the town and check the nearest hospitals. Maybe this thing works like some spooky soul radar?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Keith sighs, too lazy to walk, hovering instead. “Besides, we’ve passed the central hospital multiple times now and I haven’t felt any… vibes from it. Who knows, maybe it won’t help us at all.”

Lance halts in his step. Keith cringes when a human passes right through him. “Now, there’s no need to be such a negative Nancy, ghostly samurai! Have some hope and I’m sure it will work out.”

Keith observes a mother dragging her child away from the brunet after the small girl asks ‘mommy, why is that man talking to himself?’. The reality of their situation is painful and real. “Lance, there are at least over a hundred of hospitals in this state alone, who knows where my body might be. Besides, it’s not like you can march into every single one and ask to see me, we’re not even related nor do you know my last name! We have to be real here, this is going to be hard and I’d rather not be a burden to you. You got a career to take care of, how much longer can you feign illness before they kick you out of that bar?”

Lance’s finger probes at his chest, passing through. “Listen here, I am not giving up. I don’t care how I’m going to find you, but I know that I will and nothing you say is going to change my mind.”

Keith’s eyebrow twitches. A few pebbles hover an inch away from the ground. “You’re being unreasonable!”

“Unreasonable is like my middle name!” Lance turns on his heel to leave, but Keith’s grip is deadly tight around his wrist.

Lance doesn’t even face him. “What?” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

“Why are you so hot on helping me out? Just throw the key away and rid yourself of this – “

“No!” A few people turn their way, walking faster. The brunet no longer gives a shit, pissed off beyond belief. “If there’s a chance to bring you back before they pull the plug or your body decides that it’s had enough being soulless, if there’s even a single opportunity, I am willing to take it. Why? I don’t know! I just don’t want to sit with a thumb up my ass and watch you waste away. So don’t you even dare to imply that I should throw your existence away, Keith!”

A random aged man approaches Lance, but before he can fully voice out his concerns with the other’s mental health, Lance whips around to glare at him with a loud roar of ‘I’m fucking fine!’

“Don’t cause a scene,” Keith tries to reason, looking around. “Remember that you’re the only one who can see me.”

“I don’t give a shit. Like it or not, I care about your well-being so shut it and follow me.”

It’s not like the black-haired spirit has a choice in the matter – Lance literally has the key to his heart.

* * *

 

Well, certainly the key has no radar-like capabilities, they find out later on. In fact, when Keith feels the slight pang of electricity going through his being, followed by a sudden surge of energy, it’s anything but an indicator to his physical form or prior life. Lance is overjoyed, though, and frantically asks Keith to guide him in the right direction, but the sight they’re greeted with leaves the brunet traumatized.

They rush into a wide street, seconds before a horrendous car crash that leaves a blood splatter a few feet away from Lance’s off-white vans.

“Haha… well, I guess you can feel death auras. One more checkbox… to… mark…” Lance attempts to joke, voice shaky and pupils dilated when they finally make their way home. The words ‘stricken’ or ‘upset’ don’t even begin to describe the brunet’s current state. Keith kind of fears for his sanity.

Lance and deaths just don’t mix, especially now that he’s pretty much being haunted. Lance is meant to be a sunshine kid, living away from the cruel horrors of painful reality. Keith’s taking it away with his… abnormality.

Lance looks close to hyperventilating by the time he settles down on the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling. There’s a crack in it. He hasn’t seen it before.

He considers sleep, but the images of an ambulance, a stretcher and a body bag are still vivid behind his heavy, burning eyelids. Keith’s uncharacteristically silent, staying far away from Lance’s field of vision.

(Right now, he appreciates it.)

“I think I’m going to hit the Garrison for some drinks. If I’m lucky, Pidge and Hunk will be there providing some background noise.” Lance rises from the sofa and drags his feet to the wardrobe, ruffling through it, taking out a simple leather jacket. He can feel Keith’s mistrustful stare. “I’ll be back after midnight, don’t wait up or whatever.”

He turns around, only to find the spirit all up in his face, eyes glowing dangerously. He seems pissy. Lance keeps his features emotionless. He’s a little more used to the ghostly pop-ups.

“You’re just going to leave me here and go get shitfaced? That’s a dumb idea.”

“Ah!” Lance holds up a finger, interrupting. “But it is an idea! All ideas are good ideas in the right circumstances.”

Keith crosses his arms overs his chest. “Yeah, no. I’ve seen what you’re like when you have too much. Right now consuming booze would kill you.”

Lance’s lower lip curls up as he steps around the other. “What are you, my mother? I’m not a kid, I know when to stop.”

“Didn’t seem like that earlier.”

“Don’t be a fucking douchebag,” Lance hisses, pulling on his sneakers. “I had a bad timeout.”

“You’re about to have a bad goddamn _timeout_ if you take a step through that door,” Keith threatens, his mullet flaring up as though he’s an enraged feline. A distant rattling sound follows. It’s damn creepy, but Lance needs to have this. He cannot live in fear.

“Give me your worst, Mullet – _whoa!_ ” Lance squeaks and stumbles forward when the carpet under his feet is forcefully yanked by an unseen force towards the direction of the living room.

He looks up at Keith who only huffs out an angered breath, glaring. His eyes are magenta at this point, a rather unsettling sight. Lance fears for the safety of his head because the lamp that’s hanging right above it looks godawfully unstable.

It feels like he should apologize immediately to make this supernatural shit cease, but he only glares with a deep frown. “Screw you, man.”

Keith bends forward, his presence overwhelming. Lance feels like a little ant compared to him. “You keep up on this track and I’ll possess you or so help me,” Keith hisses, voice echoing.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

The thing is that it sounds an awful lot like a _legitimate threat_ and Lance isn’t too willing to test it out. Instead, he slowly rises, keeping a cautious eye on the other all the while, hands raised in air. The moment Keith’s narrowed eyes lose their edge, Lance straight up books it out of his stuffy apartment, not letting the other react. He swears to god that he hears something smash against the front door and the loud ‘Lance, goddamnit!’ reaches him even on the third floor as he takes four stairs at once.

He tries not to think about the scattered remains of his notebooks, the crushed potted plants, and the impending hazardous destruction that will positively leave his apartment in shambles.

* * *

 

He expertly shoots down any and all questions that his friends have for him and begs the boss’ forgiveness, promising to perform that night without any pay in return. The spare acoustic guitar that one of the janitors digs out from the music room isn’t in the best shape, but it sounds decent enough after a lot of tuning, courtesy of Pidge. Playing is what he misses, what helps him clear the mind. Keith is right – taking alcohol right now would be fatal.

So he loses himself in the familiarity, the routine before Keith and this ghostly business, before his life actually turned interesting. Keith’s brought back some color into his black and white life – the warm hues that have disappeared a long long time ago, or so he's thought.

It’s funny how the ‘dead’ can brighten up your life like this. It’s funny that he’s still capable of trusting someone like this after all that heartache – he’s still capable of letting someone in.

Lance thinks that the only reason why he notices the lone man silently crying by one of the tables is because he feels no better himself. Usually his attention is focused on the guitar held in his hands, on its sound, on his own voice, on the tips of his sneakers, but never the crowd. Lance likes drawing a clear line between the band and the listeners, enjoys having a personal bubble. He performs better with no distractions, so why…

All these ground-shattering changes happening in the span of a single day. Lance doesn’t know what’s at fault here – the stars and planet alignments or the legitimate psychic visit.

They wrap up a little after midnight, the Garrison already half-empty, nearing closing hours. He asks Pidge and Hunk to clean up and makes his way to the man, his eyes still rimmed red from crying.

Lance slides him a soda and takes a seat on the other side of the table. The stranger looks up in surprise, sniffling.

Lance shrugs. “You looked pretty upset there, so I’ve decided to indulge my super-secret fairy godmother role and give you a drink on the house,“ he offers as an explanation, taking a sip of his own drink.

The man is seemingly in his mid-thirties, hair already heavily peppered with white. The dark circles under his tired eyes mar that flawless face, and if Lance squints, he can see a faded scar on the bridge of his nose. He’s built like a model with the looks to boot, but for some strange reason, Lance finds himself completely ignoring the handsome features. Something must be seriously wrong with him if he's willingly passing up the opportunity to flirt with a beautiful person. Blame it on the trauma.

“Ah, thank you…” the nameless man trails off. He seems downright _miserable_ but still manages to force out an honest smile, no matter how small. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem. Can’t let people cry at my shows unless they’re tears of joy.“ The man self-consciously touches his dried tear tracks at the comment. “Do you need a listener? I don’t mean to brag but I’m told that I’m damn good at it.”

The stranger hangs his head low, fingers intertwined. Lance takes notice of the prosthetic arm, yet carefully says nothing. He’s silent for a while but the brunet doesn’t want to push it. “I don’t know if I should burden you with my problems… don’t want to get you down. Great show as always, by the way. You guys are improving.”

Lance leans forward. “Ohh, are you a regular? Sorry, I haven’t seen you before. I usually… don’t really pay much attention to my surroundings, haha, stage lights and all!” he laughs guiltily, downing the rest of his soda for the lack of something better to do.

The man’s dark eyes cloud. Yikes, tender subject. Perhaps he was dumped here? Who knows. “Yeah, I guess you could call me one. I used to go to the Garrison when I was just a college student. I can see that it’s still a hot spot for these kids.” His eyes sweep over the dwindling crowd. “I stopped going here after graduation but then my younger brother flunked out of university. He desperately needed some cheering up so I brought him here. God, he complained the entire ride.” The man sobs/laughs and his gaze turns watery. Lance is exceedingly aware of the past tense. _Oh_. “He ended up enjoying your gig and we kept returning here every week just to listen to you. Your new single is great, I’m sure Keith would’ve loved it.”

Lance balks at the mention of that name, freezing in his seat. His heartbeat stops for like an entire minute, stomach twisting up in painful knots. That can’t be – Keith isn’t a rare name. It’s just a coincidence, right?

The handsome man stares at him with a slight frown. “Are you feeling alright? You were sick, right? I can go, if – “

Lance forcefully shakes himself back into awareness, voice strained. “No, I’m fine, just – just, _uh,_ zoned out for a bit. Sorry, uh?”

“Shiro,” the man offers, extending the healthy hand. Lance grabs it in a firm shake, palm sweaty.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Lance, if you haven’t known that already. Anyways, I don’t mean to sound like a prying asshole, but would you mind sharing what happened to your brother? I mean, if that’s fine with you!”

After another beat of silence, Lance is nearly ripping out his hair in frustration, trying to calm himself all the while. _It doesn’t have to be the same Keith, it doesn’t have to be_ my _Keith, don’t get your hopes up, dumbass._

His heartbeat is loud in his ears when Shiro speaks up again, voice low. “He – he’s always been a bit on the sickly side. Didn’t let that stop him, though. A few weeks back he left the house without his vital meds and – “ A single tear rolls down his cheek, but Shiro pays it no mind. “An asthma attack gone very wrong. The ambulance arrived too late.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say, breathing heavily as though he’s just ran a marathon. How would someone tell another person that their family member is alright even if they’re _kind of stuck_ between the planes of existence? Shiro would probably knock him out and throw him through the window if Lance voiced it out wrongly. Hell, there is no good way to say it.

He has to force himself to think this through, mind working overtime. “I – I’m sorry for your loss…” _Your brother is alive and possibly throwing a fit because I didn’t take him out for a walk!_ Lance wants to scream it out so badly but he _can’t._

Shiro shakes his head to the sides, the white fringe brushing his purplish eyelids. “He’s still alive, just… sleeping. We still have hope that he’ll come around. I will never stop hoping,” the older man says, determination shining in his lidded eyes. “Keith’s strong, he always pulls through at the last moment. He’s already given us some scares in the past, this is just another test,” Shiro runs a shaky hand through the short hair, sounding as though he’s desperately trying to convince himself that everything will be alright.

Lance can’t bear to watch this anymore, deciding to stop beating around the bush. He frantically looks around, leaning closer to the older man. “I know this may sound a bit strange coming from me, but I think that I remember your brother and here’s the deal – did he, by any chance, ever drop his keys here? Well, a key to be exact – black tip, plastic? Because I’ve found it after one of the shows and I think that I’d like to return it.”

Shiro’s eyes widen a little. “Yes, he lost his keys the day before the… incident. He was really torn up about it – that key was given to him by me. The key to his first apartment. He wanted to return later that night and look for it again. “

Lance swallows down a ball of nerves. Yep, no mistake here. _Same Keith._

Same Keith _who was about to go back to his body._

Lance fidgets nervously. “So yeah, I was the one who found it but I kind of got distracted and forgot to leave it to the staff. I’m… I’m very touched by your story and I was wondering if it’d be alright for me to visit him and return it? It’s fine if you turn me down, I can simply go back home, fetch the key, and give it back to you.”

Maybe the desperate tone gives away his _need_ because Shiro doesn’t hesitate with the answer. “It’s alright if you come along. We could even go right now – I know that it’s way after visiting hours and that you must be tired, but our mother works as a nurse at the hospital and I’m sure that she could arrange something. Keith would appreciate it, I’m certain.”

Lance jumps up from the seat, placing his palms on the table. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Shiro seems shocked by the intense show of enthusiasm, but he still waits for Lance to collect his measly belongings and even offers him a car ride home.

* * *

 

**If this works out, you better call me the psychic of the century.**

Go to sleep, man.

* * *

 

Lance expects to come back to the after-effects of WW3, but the place is _tidy_ , not a single thing out of place. One of the lightbulbs doesn’t work, but that’s as far as the damage goes.

Lance warily looks around, trying to spot his companion, but the spirit is nowhere in sight.

“Keith?” Lance oversteps some piles of notes and crusty coffee mugs. There’s no answer. No sudden ghostly presence behind him, no glowing indigo eyes curiously staring at him from their usual spot on the windowsill, surrounded by plants. “Buddy? Are you ignoring me?”

Nothing.

“Keith, I’m sorry for acting like a shit, but you will never believe what I’ve found. We’re going to get you back home, man! If everything works out, you’ll return to your body!”

Only the calm darkness of his apartment greets him. It’s strangely… _lonely._

“Keith, please show yourself. I really am sorry and I want to say goodbye properly.”

Something catches Lance’s eye. He quickly crouches down, cradling a small key in his hands. How’d it get there? He’d left it in the pocket of his parka, right?

Shit, did something go wrong? They’ve never been separated like this. Maybe the lack of Lance’s presence affected Keith’s somehow? What happened while he was gone?

Is Keith gone? Did he do something? _Oh my god._

Cold panic begins settling deep in Lance's bones. “Keith, if you can actually hear me right now, if you’re just hiding to be an asshole, you gotta stop because _I’m freaking the fuck out here_!” Lance chokes out, feeling himself short on breath, vision swimming. “This is no time for pranks! Seriously!”

He takes a seat on the couch, calling out to the ghost over and over again, but the other just doesn't answer. Doesn’t show up.

Lance’s overwhelmed by the fear of _loss_ but he quickly brushes his personal feelings aside, along with the beginnings of tears. Shiro is waiting, Shiro _who was stuck without knowing anything for weeks_ , without any solid hope – he’s Keith’s _family_ for god’s sake, and Lance can’t take that away from them. He can only hope that he hasn’t done that already.

He exits the apartment, the key squeezed tightly in his palm. “You better wake up for his sake, you hear!? Torture me, fine, I’m used to it - but you better not put your brother through this,“ Lance says to no one in particular and exits the building.

* * *

 

He despises the hospitals, from the white halls and the hanging scent of antiseptics, to the milling doctors and nurses. They make Lance think about the inevitability of death and the fragility of health more than anything else.

He follows Shiro, barely keeping up with the other’s quick stride. They get some weird gazes from the other nurses, but they pay them no mind, probably used to Shiro’s visits by now. When they finally cross the infinite halls and reach Keith’s room, Lance freezes up, fearing to step inside.

The key in his palm feels oddly hot, but that might have to do with the fact that he’s been clutching onto it like a lifeline the entire car ride.

It takes a lot of beckoning from Shiro for Lance to finally move his legs.

What he sees makes his heart clench painfully inside his chest.

He's never thought he’d say this, but ghost Keith looks a whole lot more _alive_ than the pathetic boy lying on the hospital bed, hooked to life-support machinery steadily beeping away. There’s no spike in vital organ activity when Lance steps in closer. He tries not to think about it too much, after all, this is a shot in the dark.

Keith might be _gone._

Lance tries not to think about that possibility altogether. Neither does he want to remember the terms they've parted on.

Lance takes a few steps closer, shooting a quick glance Shiro’s way. The other only nods in encouragement.

“Hey, Keith…” Lance whispers, getting a little choked up. At this point, he’s going to bend the key with finger strength alone. “You look like hell…” he laughs, hand hovering over Keith’s pliant one, bony fingers outstretched. He’s too afraid to touch it – perhaps this is a dream and his hand will pass through the other like always? What if he touches the other and he falls apart like a mirage of lights, a sea of illusions.

He doesn’t, the skin contact jolting Lance into awareness. Keith's hand is cold but not in that deathly bone-chilling way. The brunet almost wants to crawl into the bed with him and warm him up, hold the other's body close.

No matter what, he can’t ask for Shiro to _leave_ , so he tries to keep his voice down, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He takes hold of Keith’s lifeless hand – just a shell of what he actually is, Coran’s voice echoes inside his mind – and places the small key on the soft palm, curling Keith's fingers around it, holding them in place.

Nothing happens.

Lance barely bites back the increasing urge to scream.

It’s over. It’s finally _over_ and he can’t say anything. He can’t do anything. No miracle happens, the other doesn't magically open his beautiful yet scary eyes. He can’t see _his Keith_ anymore, the Keith he’s come to love.

“Thanks for those wild few days, man,” Lance whispers, sniffling. He feels pathetic. “I’ve come to appreciate the undead culture, really. And you too, but it’s not like I’ll get to say it now. Really unlocked my feelings there, pal.” He smiles, patting the hand a few times. “Sending you all of my pink aura through this piece of metal, I hope you feel it.”

If he does, nothing indicates it.

Lance stands and turns to Shiro.

“I should be on my way now. I’ll take a taxi. If he comes around, make sure to tell me, alright? You know where to find me.”

The older man nods in understanding, clapping Lance on the shoulder. “I will. Thank you, Lance.”

The brunet only forces a smile, the next destination already clear. “I think I should be the one thanking you.”

* * *

 

Pidge says nothing when he shows up on her doorstep at 1:50 am, face wet from tears. Lance ends up hugging the dogs and bawling his heart out. Pidge lets him and his pets take the bed for the night.

* * *

 

Lance carries on like nothing's happened, the routine settling in once again. His dogs are back in the apartment, there’s mess everywhere, and the vacant spot on the windowsill is filled by more plants.

When he gets a call from an unknown number two days later, Lance almost flies over the table to pick up the phone.

He nearly dies when Shiro’s voice tells him that by some miracle Keith _has actually woken up_. Lance barely hears him through the blood rush, already pulling on clothes, but immediately stops when Shiro informs him that Keith’s lost at least a week worth of memory before the day of the incident and will have to go through therapy sessions for at least a few months.

Meaning…

Lance politely says something that sounds at least vaguely cheerful and excuses himself, dropping the phone.

“He doesn’t remember,” he tells his dogs when they approach him, wet noses poking at his arms. “He doesn’t even remember losing the key in the first place.”

There’s a black hole in his chest.

* * *

 

 _‘How do I get over someone I never dated’_ google searches don’t really help.

Lance almost wants to take up his friends’ advice to go see a psychologist, but he can’t exactly tell them the story about a ghost of a man haunting a house key.

* * *

 

Lance has never expected to make it big in the music industry, but here he is, standing in the middle of some fancy ass studio while an old guy who looks like he means business. He shoves contracts under Lance's nose and keeps saying how he could make millions if only he agreed to produce albums.

Soundcloud is good enough, Lance tells him, and politely turns the sugary offers down.

Their fame has kind of exploded after they’ve decided to upload the newest songs onto the official channel. Four tracks in total, all of them bittersweet – of haunted hotels, forests, and men. The kinds of songs people cry to and pull out their lighters for at concerts, making seas of pretty lights.

To be honest, Lance is getting pretty sick of hearing his voice on the radio during every goddamn car ride. He feels as though his feelings are being exploited for everyone’s entertainment.

Shiro doesn’t show up at the Garrison anymore. Neither does he show at their other gigs.

* * *

 

Four months pass.

He’s finally learning to ignore the past once more. He’s fine now, he thinks, after a particularly satisfying wrap-up of his night. This time the crowd isn’t all that big and he’s grateful for that, too tired to do any encores.

He steps off the huge stage of some swanky night club located three cities away from home, going for the backstage. Pidge and Hunk are already immersed in some game, wiping off the light layers of makeup, and Lance stealthily sneaks around them, ready to hit the backyard and get some fresh air.

He passes by some stacked up boxes, their contents unknown, and feels a sharp yank on his elbow.

Instincts kicking in, he throws a punch ready to defend himself first and ask questions later, but it gets easily deflected.

“Whoa, easy there!” the hooded figure exclaims, and Lance uses the opportunity to wrench his elbow away. He puts some distance between himself and the stranger who's quite possibly sent here by the music production companies to kidnap him and torture him into signing all those contracts.

“Who the hell do you think you are!” Lance squeaks, taking his battle stance. “This is private teri–“

Alarmed by Lance’s sudden shout, a bodyguard sticks out his head from around the corner to check if everything’s okay. Lance doesn’t have the chance to make a single noise before he’s pulled behind the pile of boxes, a hot hand pressed against his mouth, Lance's back snug against the "professional assassin’s" front.

Lance attempts to struggle but the other only hushes him softly and he quits tossing around, thinking that this is probably just another serious case of _fanboys._

Once the stranger makes sure that there's no one in the hall, he moves the palm away from Lance’s loud mouth. A mistake.

The brunet breathes heavily, pissed off. “I don’t know who you think you are, ninja boy, but you better let me go right now or – “

“Ninja boy? I think the correct term was ‘samurai’,” the other snorts and Lance’s heavy heart sinks all the way down to his heels.

He opens his mouth a few times, staring ahead. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real, _ha, nice joke, but there’s no way_ – “

The ‘stranger’ drags down his maroon scarf and pushes back the black hood, a small smile curling his pale lips. Lance’s knees nearly buckle under him.

“Been a while, Lance,” motherfucking _Keith_ in flesh and bone greets him in a light tone as though he’s talking about the weather and he totally didn’t try to kidnap Lance or whatever the hell he was attempting there. Also he sounds as though he _actually remembers_. “You need some new bodyguards, by the way. I could’ve stabbed you and they probably would’ve found you like three weeks later.”

Lance puts some distance between them – as much as the boxes allow without making any excessive noise, so it isn’t _much_ – and barely resists the urge to sock the other in the jaw.

“Oh! Oh, so now it’s ‘been a while’! You think it’s alright to just waltz into my life like this and say that!? You sorta kept me in the dark for – “

Keith presses a finger to his lips, shooting a quick glance at the empty hallway. Lance wants to bite it off. “Shh, cut me some slack. I remembered all of that like four hours ago. It’s still hazy at best.”

The brunet relents, shoulders slumping. Keith is before him, _actual solid Keith_ , warm and _alive_.

The black-haired man looks guilty at best. “I don't know where to start. I’m actually happy that you didn’t seek me out. I know that Shiro must've warned you about my memory loss and it would’ve ended up pretty badly if you tried to force it out of me. It must’ve been hard, but it wasn’t a walk in the park for me either. I kept having these dreams of some place I could’ve sworn I’ve never been to. A room filled with plants, coffee mugs and music sheets. It felt like a part of my life was missing.”

Lance feels an irritating itch behind his eyelids. “Do you remember the last moments? Before you woke up?” he asks tentatively, fingers twitching to reach out to the other, feel him again. This is _real._

Keith’s eyes meet his. They’re a warm indigo shade, bordering a cool grey. They’re no longer glowing, not in the _supernatural_ way, at least. Somehow, there’s certain bittersweetness to this scenario, Lance thinks, when Keith speaks up. His gaze continuously roams Lance's flushed face. “Not well. I just know that you were looking for me. I was _there_ but you didn’t see me. It’s like there was some sort of invisible barrier between us. I kept calling out but you wouldn’t look my way. It felt like being stuck in a nightmare. I didn't know what would happen next. It was terrible.”

Lance feels a solid palm on his shoulder, just resting there. He doesn’t flinch away. “Sorry for everything, Lance. I did tell you to get rid of the key to avoid all of this… havoc, but I’m glad that you didn’t do it. I’m here today because you've decided that I was worth saving.”

“I almost ended up at a mental institution because of you,” Lance sniffles into his sleeve, the itch beneath his eyelids intensifying.

“Can’t even begin to imagine how that must’ve felt like.”

“I was low-key wasting away because of you.”

Keith takes a careful step closer. “I wasn’t worth it, trust me.”

“This sounds like some toxic shit right there,” Lance lets out a choked up laugh and hugs that stupid no-longer ghost, squeezing tightly for dear life. Keith hugs back, pulls Lance in even closer. “You’re not gonna hurt me like that again, yeah?”

“Of course not. I think I promised you that at some point,” Keith mumbles into his shoulder, fingers curling in the other’s short brown strands. They gently sway to the sides, embrace tight, not loosening for a second. “You know that I was a fan of your music?”

“Shiro told me, yes.”

“I remembered when one of your new songs came up on the radio. Looked at the keys of my bike and it just – clicked. All of it.”

“Hey,” Lance whispers, smoothing a hand on Keith’s flushed cheek. His eyes are so damn gentle, radiating a strange sort of heat. “You remember and that’s – that’s great. I’m happy, but I’m even gladder that you’ve returned to the people who love you. To your family. You’re a whole person again and there’s nothing better than that. Just knowing that you were alright was more than enough, even if you didn’t remember.”

“Don’t think it would’ve been enough for me, though,” Keith confesses, turning his face lightly to brush his lips against Lance’s palm. Butterflies flutter in the brunet's stomach at the sensation. “Even if I remembered you ten years down the road, I still would’ve made the trip.”

The amount of overwhelming affection is so huge that Lance’s ribcage is no longer capable of containing it. It keeps overflowing with every word Keith says and a ‘thank you’ just isn’t enough. It’s a dull sort of yearning, intensifying with every second spent together. Lance crosses the small distance between them, mouth searing hot against his ghost boy’s. Keith kisses him back slowly, almost lazily, as though they have all the time in the world, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on Lance's lean waist.

“Stay this time?” he offers once they disconnect, Keith’s hands going up and down Lance’s sides, bunching up the fluffy white sweater. “I’m sure that my dogs will like you more in human form.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Keith smiles, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Lance again.

**Author's Note:**

> ba. is an inspiration to me when it comes to songs.


End file.
